


Wounds Never To Heal

by Asasin



Category: Shin Sangokumusou | Dynasty Warriors
Genre: Betrayal, Death, Emotional Hurt, Friendship/Love, Hurt No Comfort, Loss of Identity, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Unconfessed Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asasin/pseuds/Asasin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all wounds heal. In lieu of they will always be scars, marks to carry in quiet desolation. The weight of a burden that rests in the shadow of pain and death. When is death considered betrayal? Is it to kill a friend who chose a path whence one cannot follow even if it will lead to bloodshed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounds Never To Heal

His hands tremble and bile rises with the abhorrence sickness of himself. "What have I done...?" he whispers. His paintbrush slips from his hands into mud. He does not want to touch the weapon he had wielded to spill this blood that stains the earth and mixes with the rain. Tears burn and trickle down his smudged cheeks. "What have I done?"

What has he done? He has fulfilled his duty. He has carried out the will of the Prime Minister. But at what cost? He drops heavily to his knees beside the body, motionless, where it has fallen to rest forever. A cost greater then what the mortal world can repay. Death. The darkness that eclipses the light, an essence of being that pounds against life like the ocean waves against the shore until there is nothing left. Until the life is no more.

Memories burn through his veins as he looks into the lifeless honey brown eyes staring stonily up to the heavens. There is no gleam of existence, of life, only a cold emptiness that swells a void of equal emptiness within. The sight is terrifying and horrible, cutting into his soul, bleeding him of his animation, and leaving him feel hollow.

His knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands into tight fists of self-resentment and grief.

A wicked feeling tells him those eyes are begging to know why. Why. Why. He chokes on words of a pathetic explanation, words to a friend he cannot find, words that are too late to be spoken and heard no matter what their weight or message. "I'm sorry," he mouths finally with trembling lips. His voice is muted by the icy grip of death.

A booming clap of thunder shakes the earth and the soft rain turns into a steady downpour. The young warrior flinches and looks up. If he closes his eyes, he can see the angry and confused soul of his lost friend looking down upon him with forbidding eyes. "I'm sorry," he croaks. He looks down, ashamed at how weak his voice sounds.

His hand hesitantly touches the cool skin of his friend's cheek. The tanned skin offers only sorrow, not the bashful happiness it had once brought not so very long ago. He yearns for the feeling of warmth at the contact and the gentle way the warrior would press against his hand. For possessing such ferocity upon the battlefield, he knew the warrior held a warm softness within him, the tender nature that would make the painter laugh and smile.

This victory is no victory at all, only a defeat in poor disguise. He had not achieved anything, but has only fallen victim to the counterpart of war. The warrior had let him won. The inability to kill a friend, but to be allow himself to be killed by one had shown in the tan man's eyes before his last moment passed. The painter chokes down a sob. He had let himself be killed. He had not fought to his true extent, had not put his heart into the battle, because he had known to achieve victory would have been met at the spilling a friend's blood.

He drops his hand. Cold. So cold... He shutters, feeling numb.

He gathers his beloved friend's shoulders up in his arms and pulls him close. Resting his cheek atop hair thickly matted with mud, he blankly stares into the bloody battlefield that confines him. It is a blur of hell, pain, and death. It is a place of betrayal, traitors, grief, anger...

He has betrayed his friend just as he was betrayed. The fierce warrior had chosen a path he could not follow, forcing him to chose duty over mutual affection. But in doing so, he knows he has destroyed himself as well. A different path had not and could not change the path his heart had set upon.

The cold rain shrouds him in the heaven's eternal tears of pain and sorrow. The tears are for him. For the mutilated and limp bodies of men around him. For the sons, daughters, wives... families of those men. For the betrayers and the betrayed.

"I'm sorry Wei Yan..." he whispers. “I’m sorry.”


End file.
